let's take a chance on happiness
by devilberry
Summary: Erik buys his mother flowers on her birthday. X-Men: First Class.


_X-Men First Class Kink Meme prompt._

On his mother's birthday he gets dressed up and combs out his hair and buys a beautiful bouquet of flowers. He might not have a grave to visit, but he sets the flowers by the window and sits all day. He knows she won't come home, but he has to do it.

_I know nothing of X-Men like no seriously I don't even know why I did this lol._

* * *

><p>She always liked the purple ones best.<p>

"Because it is the color of Kings," she says, tucking a violet behind Erik's pink little boy ears. He blushes, and tries to shove her hands away.

"Flowers are girly," He frowns, fingers grasping for the plant as they swipe. "I don't want it." And he plucks it from his mess of dirty blonde and smashes it over to her, like he's forcing her to take the dirty thing.

She smiles. Laughs a bit and takes it. Kisses his forehead and tells him to be safe as she shoos him to go play in the lush green fields. The hillside is laced with other little boys and girls, and you can't quite tell who is laughing loudest, but they've all got mile-wide smiles, so the soft baby boy leaps from his mother's warm embrace to join them in a little game. It's all yellow weeds and bright sunshine and vivid grass and very faded old memories.

As he runs off, she takes the flower and presses it tightly to her chest, before walking into her house to place it on the lilywhite sheets of her beloved son.

When the sun drops dead and the sky turns black and Erik crawls back home after a day of running around like all small children should, he'll see the violet, and gracefully shove it underneath his pillowcase for safe keeping.

He's not going to tell Mama about it, but he won't need to, and she leaves it there every time she goes to make his tiny bed.

...

The first year, he doesn't even realize it. Locked up in a wooden room, he has no windows, and everything seems broken somehow. He runs his fingers up and down the walls, letting them catch on the splinters. Blood pools at the tiptops of the pale flesh, and he just watches at it as it runs down his skin.

(His face is blank and his eyes are empty and it's been such a short time but already so much of his life has left him.)

When the crimson bubbles up too much and too quickly, and things are starting to get messy, he sticks the digit into his little boy mouth and wipes the blood away. His mouth tastes like metal, and he smiles.

"What day is it?" He asks the empty room, for no apparent reason, and hopes no one's listening to him.

He cringes when a rough voice knocks against the side of the door. The numbers sound angry and harsh and he tries to shield his ears, because they're still pink little boy ears even if no one will give him flowers to tuck behind them anymore.

His voice catches in his throat and he can't think straight when the answer clicks in his brain. Date. Month. Year. And he didn't want to know, not really, he swears he didn't. But the tears bubble up and fall and he didn't mean to ask what day it was, the words just fell out.

Erik is choking on tears and mucus and his eyes won't squeeze themselves shut long enough for the water to stop pouring out. He barely even notices when the Doctor's face is breathes away from his and a boot is in his gut.

"This man was nice enough to answer your question, boy. Next time, you thank him." And he's too small to be slammed against the wall like that, but he is, though at least the guard's foot is off him, even though he still can't breathe past his sobs, and a cold leather hand crawls to his neck and squeezes.

"Thank you, sir." He gasps, and there's more blood in his mouth, and his cries soften, if just a bit. The Doctor looks pleased, and he and his guard leave Erik to his loneliness.

When the door slams shut behind them—lacking the familiar click of a metallic lock snapping into place—the boy's breathing spikes and his tears amplify that much more

...

He's got a bouquet in his arms, and grownup Erik is starting to wonder how he'd worked the letter "n" into his mother's favorite sort of flower. Violent violet.

When he went to order dozens of them, the florist man looked at him, _really _looked at him, and laughed. "Those are ugly," he said. "Old fashioned. Out of date. Girls nowadays like hot pinks and blood reds and colors that are bright and new."

Because life is hot and fast now, and Erik should know this, because he's all white fire and brilliant anger and spite, and he's a million billion miles away from green hills and _home_ (wherever that even _is _now, because he's probably lost it somewhere along the line).

So he doesn't get angry. He doesn't let himself get upset and close up this florist's throat using the cross hanging around his neck (a damn _cross_ of all things) even though he could. Knows that he could. It'd be _easy_.

But he won't. Not today.

Instead, he smiles, and it's all crooked and ugly, but this sweet florist smiles back. "That's fine," he answers. "She likes old fashioned."

...

He still thinks they're girly. The flowers.

But mother was girly. She was all round softness and close warmth and this perfume-y scent and she's been dead so long but Erik still remembers what she smelled like.

(He couldn't describe it, so don't bother asking.)

He presses his hand to the taxicab window, and it's cold. Rain splatters on the other side of the glass, and he practically feels the _dripdrop_ against his fingertips. The one bit of skin burns a little bit against the surface, and he can sense the ghost of the old splinter living inside of him and making him bleed, bleed, bleed into those perfect little bead-shapes even after all these years.

Erik doesn't have much anymore, just a tiny bag with money and clothes and maps and nothingness. It stays close to his side, like a second skin, and he runs his hand through his hair trying not to untidy it.

("Bad habit," Mama would say. "Your hair looks so nice when you brush it. So get those fingers out of it and put them to work!")

The cabdriver peeks into the rear-view mirror, and babbles on in French. He looks at Erik looking out the window and decides to ask him one last time. Men with armfuls of flowers in suits don't stumble into cars looking for nothing. "Where are you going, sir?" The "sir" seemed more than necessary.

"Nowhere. Just park nowhere."

Because it doesn't matter. Because his mother doesn't have a grave. An empty office may have been her final resting place, but he doesn't want to acknowledge that. He knows they dragged her away and threw her in a pile. They let her burn. Shaw probably lit the match himself.

"Nowhere." He says again, just to reassure himself. "Nowhere," Whispers under his breath and tries to make it sounds like something real.

...

The house is big.

(_Too big, _he always thinks to himself and half-heatedly hopes Charles hears him.)

He's learned to situate himself in one of the few extravagant libraries littered throughout the building, one that no one visits. It's quiet, and filled with books, and just too big. He comes here to let it be quiet. To breathe or think or anything else. He'd lived alone for too long to be able to have a loud loving family again so quickly. He's nervous, but would never admit it. Scared, maybe.

He did get the last person he loved shot, didn't he?

More often than not, he allows his curiosity to get the best of him, and flips through the seemingly endless volumes lining the Xavier Library. He rarely stops to _read_ the books, but the images of black words printed soldier-straight on white pages make him feel safe somehow. Like he can hold onto their sharp letters for dear life if he needed to. Not that he would.

He claims he doesn't know how it happens, but one day a Floriology textbook lands in his lap. He brushes along the leather spine, really feeling the worn-out old thing, and gets himself covered in dust. He almost puts it back on the shelf. He wants to put it away, he honestly does, but the same little boy who asked what day it was all that time ago cracks the book and dances his eyes along the faded pages.

Page after page of worn-out flowers, all painted in washed-out colors (nothing bold or bright or new). Roses, daisies, sunflowers, and of course he lets himself linger of the page marked _Violetta_ in big black letters.

Watchfulness. Modesty. Truth. "Let's take a chance on happiness." The book says in swirly font. This is what it means to be a violet.

So it only seems fitting that when her day rolls around, he's perched neatly in one of the red velvet chairs, and he lays her flowers down here and stares out this window because it's bright and green outside and he'd almost let himself smile (ifhecould). The sun seems to always shine through these windows, and Erik can't help but wonder how anyone bar himself could ever feel misery sitting in this house.

His eyes are fixed on the bouquet he's got with him. Blue and white littered amongst the purple. (Always purple, always the most purple violets.) And they almost blend together behind his teary eyes.

This is the one day a year he allows himself to indulge in his thoughts of her, the ones he hasn't buried up because they hurt so much. The ones of big pots cooking food and warm smells and pure hominess. Her smile is bright and sharp, just like his would be, and her cheeks flare cherry red when she laughs. The happiness bubbles up inside him before he can keep it down, and his lips twitch. Ever so slightly.

The sun reflects off the metal framing of the window, and he bends it to his will so it pops open. Let's the cool air rush in and sweep his skin. He hears the children, somewhere, and you can't quite tell who is laughing loudest, but they've all got on those mile-wide smiles.

There's knocking on the door before it twists open, and Charles sticks his head into the old room. His lips part, and he's about to say something, Erik knows that he is, but his mouth closes and he simply watches his friend.

After a few moments of silence, he's compelled to ask. "Are you alright?"

And when Erik nods, eyes glazed over and cheeks damp and flushed, holding onto a multicolored group of flowers like they're going to save his life, Charles simply leaves the room, closing the door tightly behind him.

The gust created by the shutting door makes the library seem cooler than it was before. Erik represses a shiver, before he allows himself to return to his musing and daydreaming.

"Mother," He says to the empty air around him. "Please come home."

And he feels like this house wouldn't seem so big if she were in it.

...

He always feels so cold now. His blood reeks of iron, twice as much so, and his skin may as well be steel. He lives in a metal room, partially because he wants to and partially because he _needs_ to, and the door is always locked.

The suit looks awkward on his shoulders now, as he looks at his shiny distorted reflection in the room's walls. Too small, maybe, and he's had this suit for five years but it seems so _tiny_ now. His hair is sleek and combed back, but you can't see it behind the rubyred helmet. Its edges poke at his face and scratch him a bit and he lets the sharp material bite into his fingers as they trace the pointed edges.

He can't wipe his tears very well with the thing on his skull, but he's not crying very much, so that's okay.

The flowers are lying on his bed, and they seem out of place. They're too tiny for his big bed, just like his old suit and his new self. Everything is so much _bigger_ now than it used to be. But that would make sense, wouldn't it?

He feels Mystique's knuckles beating against the door more than he hears them. "Magneto?" She asks, her voice still not having lost its soft naïve edge. "Are you alright?"

And he gracefully shoves the flowers underneath his pillowcase for safe keeping. Tells her to go away, and she does. He feels her feet smack against the metallic flooring as she marches in the opposite direction.

He feels ridiculous all of the sudden, so he changes out of his suit and stops crying.

"Happy Birthday, Mother." And he lies down on his bed, forgetting he's hidden his violets there.


End file.
